Icecold Vengeance
by GloriaNewt
Summary: Humiliated, rejected and alone, Icy Stevens is heartbroken over Constance's rejection, but he's just the person that somebody else has in mind for a far more sinister plan...
1. Chapter 1

**Authors Note:**** This is a little idea that got buried amongst my doodles from ages ago, but a particularly brilliant ping pong session with the lovely Long Vodka generated some great ideas on how to develop my initial ideas further *awards cookies for being so helpful and lovely*. I do intend to update this, along with all the other ideas that I currently have in an unfinished state, but unfortunately, the dreaded A-levels are starting in 10 days' time, so not sure how often I'll be updating for the next few weeks! Anyway, hope you enjoy, reviews are always appreciated!**

A tall, suited man pushed tersely through the crowds of screaming school-children, dodging the waving seas of adoring placards, grimly ignoring the hundreds of autograph seeking young witches as he wound through the impossible maze of pleading figures that were nearly trampling each other to underfoot in their desperation to shuffle closer to the elite celebrity figure who was attempting to make his exit from the courtyard. He paused at Walkers Gate, forcing his reluctant facial muscles to pull his usual dazzling smile as he turned and waved cheerfully at the scrabbling hoards, the uncontrollable squealing rising to an new level of ear-shattering decibels as he casually blew a kiss to the awaiting masses before climbing thankfully into the back seat of the awaiting black Rolls Royce Phantom, sinking into the plush seats, thankfully disappearing from public view behind the comforting safety of the dark tinted windows. Free from putting on the usual show of showbiz bravado, he leant forwards and placed his aching head within his cool hands, letting out a long sigh before a polite cough from the driver brought him to his senses.

"The nearest hotel, John," he snapped tersely, "And quickly..."

"I though Sir was flying to the south of France this evening?" came the patient, steady reply.

"Look," came the infuriated growl, "I employ you to drive, not to act as a bloody automated diary service, just me out of here at once!"

The greying chauffer glanced in the rear-view mirror at his stricken master, biting back the savage retort that he longed to utter before nodding abruptly and easing the enormous car forwards at a stately pace.

"As Sir wishes…" he spat bitterly within his mind, remaining obediently mute.

The master stared morosely out of the window at the passing landscape, not even seeking distraction in the awaiting piles of newspaper clippings proclaiming his meteoric rise to fame, paying no attention to the many letters of adoring fan-mail left unopened upon the silver rack that sat next to him. Fame and all the pleasures that it brought had turned sour in his mouth, the exhilaration of public prominence dying away to lethargic indifference following the extinguishing of the driving force behind his quest for stardom.

Icy Stevens leaned back into the luxurious seat, unable to look at the disappearing castle behind him, the fresh pain of rejection gnawing away relentlessly at his heart. She was there. The most perfect woman that he had ever met, the very inspiration for the show that had made his name, propelling him from an unknown reporter for Sorcery FM into the highest-paid man in magical media, becoming an overnight success story, steadily clawing his way to the top of the greasy pole of fame. He had been a nobody when he first set eyes upon the raven-haired goddess, a hopeless journalist still awaiting his "big break" in desperate belief, writer of the shambolic report on the annual Witch education conference that was politely dismissed by an incredulous producer, when a chance encounter with a certain woman had spawned the gems of an idea for the show that would propel him up the entertainment ladder in 2 years to become one of the foremost names in the magical entertainment field. Finding her again after those meteoric years, the object of his harboured affections, only to be harshly rejected by the very provider of his inspiration had shattered him, torn his self-confidence to shreds, the fantasy reunion deviating starkly from the fairytale romance to the grim reality of loneliness and obsessive yearning that had evolved within his teeming mind, a rude awakening from the blissful dreams that had fuelled him in his quest for so long.

"Oh Constance," he muttered, stroking a trembling finger lightly across the glossy paper, staring deeply into the dark depths of her soulful almond eyes, the picture of the mighty sorceress that he had cut from the programme of the conference, the miniature that had been kept loyally within his wallet ever since that day. "All of this was for you, my darling, every penny would have been yours, my beautiful inspiration…" he kissed the pristine image before carefully returning it to its hiding place. As unable to throw it away as he was to walk away from her after rediscovering her by chance, her presence taunting him mercilessly as he remembered the scene in the hall after the show. The shattering of his dreams. He had left Cackles Academy on an occasion that had promised so much with nothing but pondweed tangled through his immaculate hair and a severely bruised ego, to say nothing of a broken heart.

The impressive car, brashly baring its personal number plate- 1CY S- pulled to a halt outside a small building, desperately in need of a coat of paint, its grubby white exterior standing out dully from the grey of the drizzling afternoon, a dark red name board swung creakily from a rusting bracket, in imminent danger of decapitating the next unfortunate person to walk beneath it. A few picnic tables in a distinctly shambolic state of disrepair sat outside, their brewery-sponsored umbrellas flapping limply in the rain, weeds poking through the unkempt grass which was littered with discarded cigarette butts in various states of decomposition. Devoid of life except for the faint orange glow of a light within the bar area, the accommodation was far from meeting Icy Steven's stringent values.

"Is this it?" he snorted in disgust at the distinctly mediocre surroundings, jolted out of his reverie.

"This is the only accommodation within 30 miles of the school," replied the chauffer in a level tone of voice, "And Sir did request the nearest premises…" his voice brightened as he attempted humour, "I believe that they have a karaoke night this evening, Sir…" he trailed off at the thunderous expression that his employer was displaying. He muttered a faint apology beneath his breath.

"Hmm… It'll do…" his employer dismissed him with a wave of his manicured hand, "Carry my bags in, John."

Icy wrapped his soft grey cashmere coat around his shoulders tightly, shivering slightly at the draught that was whistling through the open door as he climbed reluctantly out of the shelter of the Rolls Royce. He bit back a derogatory remark about the shabby appearance, reminded distinctly of the shoddier rooms that he had been forced to rent only a few years ago. Before her…

He mentally kicked himself for thinking of Constance once more as her face swam before his eyes which were rapidly filling with salty tears of pain, her low tones echoing within his head, "Your hand is on my arm…" and then the flash of light that had resulted in his unceremonious crash to the floor…

He stared back at his shelter for the night, comforted only by the sight of the three-letter word that hung over the door. BAR.

He only had one intention for that evening, to get as drunk as humanely possible in attempt to blot the tormenting sight of her face from his memory.

xxx

Her talk had been "Standards, standards, standards" yet, as he sat morosely nursing another fingerprint-stained glass of whiskey at the grubby little bar in the B&B, he knew that somehow he'd fallen short of her impeccable standards. He'd even gone as far as to request the same brand of white wine for his lunch that they had shared at the conference, when he had first seen that enchanting goddess, sipping slowly from her rationed glass of wine, little bead of condensation running slowly down the glass, meeting her willowy fingers as she nibbled tentatively at a rather suspicious looking vol-au-vent before discarding it with a look of distaste. Briefly, their eyes had met for a haunting moment across the crowded room, his heart skipping a beat as he stared upon her beauty, a look of confusion passing across her face before she looked away abruptly... He had had high hopes when she had permitted herself to drink with him at lunch, but cursed the unexpected arrival of the pompous Phyllis Pentangle, the dreaded woman with whom he had to deal with every week after yet another victory from that bloody school...

He gulped back the last dregs of amber liquid from the glass before slamming it slightly haphazardly down on the cracked wooden surface of the bar.

"Same again…" he slurred, rubbing his aching eyes, brushing a stray lock of hair away from his flushed face, the faint background chatter of the occupants of the bar washing over him like meaningless waves of sound as another group of intoxicated locals set about murdering various dissonant, tuneless renditions of "Waterloo" by ABBA, the resulting din doing nothing but fuel his throbbing headache.

Alfred the barman gave up polishing the filthy glasses and threw him a concerned look.

"You alright?" he questioned as he poured another double whiskey and set it in front of the dishevelled looking man, who merely raised his eyes slowly to the source of the voice, "Only, if you don't mind me sayin', I've seen a lot of men drownin' their sorrows in 'ere over many years, an' ter me, it boils down ter two reasons, money an' women…" he leant closer and firmly prised Icy's willing hand off the glass before he could take another mouthful of the numbing alcohol, "An' despite it being none o' me business, I can assure you from experience, that the answer to life's problems ain't never found at the bottom of a glass…"

Icy sighed theatrically, throwing a hand up into the air in his anguish, the momentum nearly propelling him sideways off the precarious barstool.

"It's her…" he moaned, head in hands, "The most magnificent woman in the world and she won't have anything to do with me…" he made a wild grab for the abandoned glass and drained it in a single mouthful.

Sitting in the darkened booth in the corner of the bar, a woman was watching from the shadows in disgust at the drunken man who was pouring his heart out to the sympathetic ear of the friendly barman in-between sobs and large gulps of whiskey.

"Weakness..." she muttered to herself, sipping economically at her port and lemon as she watched him stare deeply into the swirling depths of his tumbler of whiskey, having long-since lost count long ago of how many he had consumed, "Another hopeless specimen of a human being…"

"Constance!" came the drunken howl from the bar in answer to Alfred's gentle questioning, "She's still at Cackles Academy! W-wouldn't come with me! The most beautiful woman in the world, magical, beautiful, and she h-hates me! My precious little inspiration…" he dissolved into a loud bout of noisy tears as the barman awkwardly patted him upon the shoulder in reassurance.

The observer stiffened in her seat as the information flowed freely from between the intoxicated lips. This was it! Her key to revenge!

"They all have weaknesses, fatal flaws which can be manipulated and exploited..." she chuckled darkly to herself, pausing to watch her target rise unsteadily from the barstool, wildly throwing out an arm to offer the support that his legs weren't providing as he staggered slightly, psyching himself up for the mammoth task of safely ascending the rickety wooden stairs of the B&B to his awaiting bed, desperately trying to make both of his reluctant limbs work in something resembling coordination. He made it as far as the doorway before the distinctly low oak beams interrupted his weaving gait, dealing him a square blow to the forehead. He paused, swaying as he smiled broadly for the first time that day, shocked into humour as he fell in an inebriated heap upon the faded patterned carpet. The landlady merely tutted impatiently, long-since immune to the effects of drunken lodgers sprawled across the furniture as she nudged him to his feet. Star or no star, she wasn't going to have this self-confessed celebrity sleeping upon her floor!

The hidden witch chose her moment well, casting a quick spell that caused a mass of dark curls to obscure her face before whisking forwards and helping the inebriated man to his feet.

"Whoa, steady young man," she smiled kindly, inwardly wincing in repulsion as he seized her by the arm as she hauled him to his feet, "What on earth is the matter?"

He attempted to focus his vision upon her but soon gave it up as a losing battle and allowed himself to be escorted to the relative comfort of a nearby armchair.

"Now then…" she began, leaning forwards, speaking slowly and clearly, articulating her words like one would to a particularly backward child, "Tell me all about it…"

xxx

Icy Stevens groaned loudly as he came to in a dingy, damp-smelling room with peeling wallpaper. The curtains had been undrawn and blinding light was flooding into his protesting retinas. He sniffed carefully before feeling a wave of nausea roll through his delicate stomach at the fatty stench of the fried breakfast that sat congealing on his bedside table. Instead, he groped feebly in the drawer for the nearest packet of paracetamol, his head aching more than he had previously thought possible, a splitting pain that rolled around his temples like thunder in a storm, a heavy bass resonance that was making the room swim before him. He pushed a couple of the tablets into his mouth and swallowed a mouthful of cold, unsweetened tea to wash them down with.

"What on earth was I drinking last night…" he moaned as he rolled onto his side, propping himself up upon a trembling elbow to read the hands of his travelling alarm clock. Eleven thirty.

"Shit…" he fell onto his back, staring at the cobweb-ridden ceiling, cursing beneath his breath as he realised that he had precisely ten minutes to return to Sorcery FM to a meeting with the head of the Magical Entertainment to discuss the re-commissioning of "The Witchy Hour" for the third series. He cast a look at his mobile phone only to see a barrage of unread texts and answer phone messages, doubtless either from an irate manager demanding to know his exact whereabouts or a fawning fan-message from a breathless schoolgirl, delighted to have finally tracked down his phone through various means of tracking and obsessive research.

Five minutes later he was striding out of the door, clad in a typically expensive grey suit as he stepped into the backseat of the awaiting Rolls Royce, unfolding the morning newspaper that lay folded neatly upon the leather upholstery.

"Sorcery FM Studios, John," he snapped, without bothering to offer the customary morning greeting, "And step on it, I'm late!"

He was greeted by a resolute silence as the chauffer stared obstinately into space, ignoring his every word.

"Hello!" he leant forward, snapping his fingers rudely behind the chauffer's ear, "Can you hear me! I said I'm going to be late!"

"Ah, Mr Stevens, about time…" came a voice from his left, barely taking trouble to disguise the amusement at his agitation.

"Who on earth are you?" came the surprised retort as he wheeled around to confront the stranger who had taken it upon themselves to occupy his car.

"I see that you have everything...frame, money but the one thing you cannot buy and that constantly eludes you is love...it's her, isn't it"…

He folded his arms and glared at the stranger who clearly knew who he was... surely not another deranged fan? But how on earth did she know his emotional turmoil surrounding _her?_

"Okay," he smiled coldly, raising his hands, "I have no idea who you are or what you want...but I have a hectic schedule, and I need to be somewhere, preferably without your company…"

She laughed humourlessly, toying with him like a cat would with a mouse, offering him the prize, dangling her in front of his nose like a dog being baited with a bone, "You want the one thing that would complete your perfect life...do you not?"

"What are you talking about? Leave me alone!" he spat, trying the door as he attempted to leave, sorrow creeping into his voice once more as Constance invaded his brooding thoughts yet again.

"Please calm down Mr Stevens... I do believe that I may be able to provide the answer to your problems..." she smiled evilly as the confused man made to escape, frantically hammering the sealed door with his fists.

"John," he bellowed, wincing as his crashing headache reminded him of the systematic abuse of his liver from the night before, "John, for God's sake let me out! Who on earth is she?"

John continued to stare straight ahead, his mouth slightly open, eyes blank and trancelike as he gripped the leather steering wheel tightly.

Agatha Cackle smiled gleefully as she leant forward and tapped the patiently waiting driver upon the shoulder.

"Drive on, John..." she whispered in his ear.

He nodded autonomously, starting the mighty engine which leapt into life with a deep throaty roar, selected a gear and sped off in a whirl of tyre smoke and gravel.

"Now then," she began, settling back comfortably into the luxurious interior, "I believe that we have something to discuss, Mr Stevens…."


	2. Chapter 2

**Authors Note: Thank you so much to everyone who left such lovely reviews upon the first chapter of this fic. I know that I said that I was unsure as to when I would be updating this, but inspiration + a rare free afternoon meant that this was written sooner that I had expected! Thank you once more for taking the time to read this, reviews are always appreciated!**

The majestic Rolls Royce was slaloming haphazardly across both sides of the narrow moorland road, scrubby patches of heather decorating the sparse, dull landscape in occasional bursts of vibrant purple, the bleak, grey mountainous hills stretching far into the distance upon the broad horizon, framing the iron-grey skies of the gloomy day. The headlights were blazing angrily into the stormy gloom, the broad tyres were sending up a heavy cloud of misty spray from the sodden, wet surface of the road, fat bullets of rain sheeting down relentlessly upon the body of the vast vehicle which was meandering irregularly upon its journey as the oblivious chauffer casually jerked the leather steering wheel drunkenly from side to side, an expression of serene indifference plastered across his immobile features, humming merrily to himself, blissfully unconscious to anything around him. An angry blast on the horn from a stricken delivery lorry which nearly ended up in the ditch at the side of the road, a harsh scream of discord breaking through the still morning air was enough to send Icy Stevens into a further state of jabbering fear, his tumultuous headache from the rolling hangover crashing around as heavily as a thunderstorm within his temples, muttering incomprehensible, disjointed words beneath his breath in a low, ragged, breathy whisper, fearful dark eyes wild and staring as he slowly rocked backwards and forwards in the plush leather seat, desperately praying to wake soon from this relentless nightmare and find himself tucked up safely in the reassuring warmth of his king-sized bed. The squeal of tyres from yet another vehicle forced to take evasive action caused him to throw his trembling hands over his eyes, whimpering quietly in dismay as the barge-like car continued to defy death as it wove its treacherous path across both sides of the road.

Agatha Cackle studied her nails thoughtfully from behind Icy's morning newspaper, distinctly unconcerned about the erratic behaviour of the driver as she sipped carefully from her cup of coffee before finally relenting and carefully tapping the grey-suited chauffer on the shoulder.

"A little faster if you please John, we still have a long way to go…" she chided him briskly before rolling her eyes exasperatedly as he immediately took heed of her suggestion and stamped heavily upon the accelerator, causing the mighty car to lurch forwards at a frightening pace, eliciting a frightened squeak from the quaking, suited man in the back seat. People in a magical trance always seemed to lose any finesse of coordination, she tutted exasperatedly to herself as she turned to face her helpless victim once more.

"Now then Mr Stevens, I apologise for our rather brisk departure, but I believe that I have something to your advantage…"

"I-I" came the weak reply from the cowering figure next to her, incredibly worse for wear following his drunken escapades of the night before, coupled with the nauseating motion of the manic car-journey.

"I can lead you to her…" she fixed him with an intense stare, deliberate in her meaning.

He blinked slowly, recoiling slightly beneath the weight of her gaze, raising his head to stare in mild disbelief at the claim being made by his abductor.

"I'm sorry?"

"Oh, come on Mr Stevens," chuckled Agatha, her brittle, humourless laugh jarring uneasily against the dancing lightness of her teasing, sparkling tones.

"I'm certain you know who I'm eluding to, the "goddess" to whom you have lost your love-struck heart, the woman who has caused that gnawing ache of loneliness to fester within you ever since you set eyes upon her, the unattainable woman whom you were perfectly happy to risk alcohol poisoning to remove the image of from your head? The vision of perfection, orderliness and control?"

He gulped, intimidated by the savage delight that was spreading slowly across the wrinkled face of the tormentor.

She leaned closer, her grey eyes glinting with malice as she mocked him in her playful, childish tones, "But she didn't want you, did she? Not poor little Icy, he was never in her league, the obsessed admirer who watched from afar, the mere mortal who lusted after the most powerful sorceress of her generation." Her eyes narrowed to slits of contempt, "What a pathetic, mindless fool you were to even glance in her direction…."

She was even closer now, a wrinkled hand, gnarled with age like the trunk of a tree came to rest with a feigned concern upon his trembling shoulder, tears blossoming uncontrollably within his dark eyes as he fought to avert his eyes from her gaze, biting defensively upon his chapped lower lip, drawing a faint trickle of metallic tasting blood in a bid to divert attention from the agony that was seeping through him once more at the thought of the bitter rejection.

"Mortals and magic don't mix, Mr Stevens…" came the soft, all-knowing, evil whisper that seemed to bore through his very skull, a pneumatic drill to the senses, "And its only deluded fools that dare to believe otherwise…."

He glared back angrily, eyes ringed with raw, inflamed flesh from the stinging, salty tears that were clinging stubbornly to the fine eyelashes, almost childish in the way that he brushed the droplets away with balled fists, unable to deny the weakness that he was showing, all the showbiz bluster and bravado collapsing into ruins around him as he stared back into the unflinching features of Agatha Cackle, a broken man at the mercy of a maniac, her sadistic smile growing ever wider at the sight of his battle against the torment, filled with savage glee akin to a shark about to feast upon its long awaited prey as she watched the man crumble beneath the weight of his emotional baggage.

"You were never worthy of the love of Constance Hardbroom, a proud, traditional witch, mistrusting of every mortal that she meets, even the gym mistress, Imogen Drill, a long-serving, devoted member of the Academy staff is treated with prejudice and suspicion, mere filth beneath the heeled leather boots of the pureblood enchantress…"

She paused, preparing herself to deliver the final poisonous barb in her calculated attack, her voice barely audible above the raindrops which were still hammering in a relentless ostinato upon the tinted windows.

"What made you think that you were any different, Mr Stevens? How on earth could you even contemplate your ability to win her heart?"

"I…" he began hoarsely, taking deep steadying breaths in a bid to still his heaving chest, "I t-tried, I tried s-so hard…"

She nodded understandingly, patting him upon the shoulder, a sudden softening of her granite features taking place as she listened attentively to the tangled reasonings of the man who was steadily cracking beneath her own unique brand of pressure, buckling as she tortured him like a watchful spider in a web, tying the captive fly down in a spun cocoon of silk before baring its fangs and draining its prey's blood.

"B-but, she didn't want me… I offered her the world, and she wouldn't take it…." His voice was muffled behind his hands as he cradled his aching head within his palms.

He suddenly let out a howl of anguish as the trauma of the memory rose once more in vivid clarity, the crushing reminder of his own pathetic attempts to woo engulfing him in misery, "I just d-don't know what to do, I can't l-live without the t-thought of her, it was the m-mere promise of her that drove me on, b-but the memory of her i-is killing m-me slowly…."

He dissolved into sobs once more, the full impact of the last few days unleashed in one emotional outburst, as if somehow the tears could neutralise and remove the burning acid which was eating away at his broken heart. He felt a warm pair of arms close around him, enveloping him in a comforting embrace.

"Shhh now," came the softly spoken words, "I came only to help you, Mr Stevens, to offer you an escape from this pain…"

He choked slightly, "I love her, I love her so, so much…." He whispered quietly.

"I know…" shushed the soothing reply, as she rubbed his shoulder in slow circles like a patient mother comforting a howling child, "I too know what it is like to be discarded by the one you love, betrayed and cast aside upon the road of life…."

She bit convincingly upon her quivering lip, crocodile tears seeping from the corners of her eyes in a convincing display. She turned her head away to face the blurred landscape, her voice falling to murmur, the trace sounds of an upset sob escaping from within her.

"In my case, it was my own flesh and blood… my sister, the barbaric Judas who turned upon me and forced me from my family home, banished forever to the wilderness, alone and worthless…"

She broke off with a wry shrug of her shoulders, drawing in a calming breath with devastating convincingness, acted beautifully; she had the infatuated entertainments tycoon in the palm of her wrinkled hand.

"However, I think an introduction may be in order…" she snapped her fingers causing the long mass of dark curls to straighten and lighten, eventually merging into a neat grey bob, finally choosing to reveal her identity to the bemused victim.

"Amelia?" he questioned in disbelief at the sight of the familiar greying hair, accompanied by the characteristic plump silhouette, pushing himself away from the mysterious figure, heartbeat rising once more as he fought to disbelieve what his flabbergasted senses were relaying to his puzzled mind, another bitter reminder of the school that he had left behind.

"No," she sighed heavily, injecting a precise amount of remorse into her statement, "My name, Mr Stevens, is Agatha Cackle, betrayed sister of the "saintly" Amelia. The black sheep of the family, so to speak…"

"You mean that, _Amelia_.."

She retorted with a harsh bark of laughter, "Yes! My perfect sister, the twin who could never put a foot wrong, adored by the magical community, praised as one of the foremost educators in the magical arts, lauded for her selfless dedication to further expanding the ties between the mortal and magical worlds through education… yet, she showed her true colours when it came to the treatment of her own flesh and blood….

She cleared her throat huskily, still feigning the appropriate amount of mistrust and apprehension as she began to relay her fictitious account, shooting darting looks at her prey, each cursed syllable washing over the aghast ears of the radio presenter like a soothing balm, the tale of a kindred spirit, bound by pain, another who had been to the depths of hell and back at the hands of a loved one.

"_Many years ago, my grandmother, Antonia Cackle was the headmistress of Cackles Academy. She was an extremely talented witch, at the forefront of potions innovation, a kind, brave and loyal woman to the very end; she absolutely doted upon me and my sister, the absolute apples of her eye following the untimely death of our mother when we were barely six years old. But, as the years went by, she gradually became sick, a degenerative form of dementia that eat slowly away at her, like a worm within an apple, a deadly disease feasting hungrily upon her sanity, clawing away at her mind, unravelling it like a stray thread in a fraying tapestry, destroying her from within, leaving nothing but a confused, blank shell, unable to even remember the slightest detail of her surroundings, deeply mistrusting of even her closest relatives. Her mood could change faster than a storm breaking upon a humid midsummer's day, from a sweet, kind old lady to a hellish nightmare in the blink of an eye. Magicless, unable to command the mighty powers within as her defences slowly crumbled and control deserted her, it left her prone to wild, uncontrollable bursts of devastating raw magic when she was particularly angry or frustrated, venting her fury and confusion upon those who still had the resolve to protect her._

_I abandoned my studies for my teaching certificate and returned to the academy to care for her night and day, as I felt was my duty to her, a return for the love and attention she lavished upon me as a child, calmly taking all the disaster and anger that she dispelled at me in my stride. However, my devious little sister took full advantage of her diminishing mental state, preying on the decaying mind of my grandmother, an opportunist to the core, she knew what she wanted and the hungry predator would not relent until she had achieved her aims. She persuaded Granny Cackle to change her will in the hours before she passed away, berating her and tormenting her at her weakest, forcing her rigid opinions upon a defenceless, scared old lady, brutally disinheriting me and making herself the undisputed future Headmistress and inhibitor of Cackles Academy, leaving me penniless and disgraced!_

_I had been left alone in my quarters, according to my express wishes in an attempt to cope with the shock of this revelation, and to mourn the passing of my beloved grandmother, the centre of my world from an incredibly early age. Then to add further to the nightmare in which I found myself, the very next morning I was arrested out of the blue by the Witches Council, charged with fraud and attempting to bribe a senior witch official to change the terms of the will! An old favour for a friend, doubtless my sister had greased a few palms with her inherited riches, defiling the inheritance of my grandmother's estate to ensure that I, the constant thorn in the side of her success was removed once and for all- but I fought, oh how I fought to return, just for the right to attend my beloved grandmother's funeral, to say my last goodbyes to the witch who had cherished me and cared for me when I was growing up, the only person in my life to ever dare to find it within themselves to love me for who I was! _

_The hour after the service, I was evicted for good from my rightful family home by that venomous viper! Power-crazed and ambitious, she was already plotting her own improvements for the school, making countless loyal members of staff redundant after years of devoted teaching, accepting huge amounts of money to take on the most useless dregs from the barrel of magical ineptitude, creating scholarships for girls from non-magical families! Banished into the cold to face the humiliation of the scorn of the magical world, disgraced, alone and embarrassed, I swore to reap my revenge upon her and all other treacherous young witches who climb through the ranks of that cursed school!"_

She finished her dramatic speech, eyes gleaming with rage, breathing heavily, her cheeks blotchy with wrath as her hands clenched tightly within her lap, exposing bone-white knuckles through the thin, translucent skin, momentarily oblivious to her surroundings, consumed with unpretentious hated and disgust at the mere thought of the silver-haired angel at the heart of the Academy.

She recovered herself, turning to the shaken man sitting next to her, who was by now convinced that he had fallen into a particularly vivid dream, each event spiralling manically out of control before his disbelieving eyes, emotions changing in the blink of an eye, dashing his shattering brain upon the rocks of despair, confusion reigning supreme within his weary psyche as he attempted to adjust to the exhaustingly volatile states of his captor.

"But you Mr Stevens are a businessman, director of Icy Productions, the multi-million pound entertainments empire and I have a logical, straightforward proposition for you..."

He merely raised an intrigued eyebrow in reply.

"I need your help, Mr Stevens…" she began slowly, placing a deliberate weight upon her next selection of words, "And I propose a simple exchange… help me in my plans, and I can ensure that the love of Constance Hardbroom shall indeed be reciprocated…"

She leant forward and tapped John upon the shoulder, causing the mighty car to screech to an immediate halt.

"But, the choice for cooperation is yours, Mr Stevens," she said calmly, " You are perfectly within your rights to leave this meeting at this precise moment, to walk away and lose all contact with me, and if you choose that path of action, then I will not hold that decision against you."

Icy remained steadfastly within his seat, his brain shrieking for his limbs to move, to bear him away from the sowing of the seeds of disaster, logical opinions stuttering across his racing thoughts like interrupting bursts of machinegun fire, demanding that he take cover from the onslaught of his emotions, but his pounding heart had paralysed his disobedient body, the fire of hope rekindled with the faintest of sparks of promise, binding him irreplaceably to Constance's side in the slightest of faith of a future reunion, the eternal expectation that one day the enchanting woman, the raven-haired beauty would finally be his.

He cleared his throat, extending a hand that was shaking with adrenaline to the awaiting witch, grasping her hand in the handshake that would adversely seal the fates of many.

She remained silent, but a gleam of triumph was dancing within her eyes, her heart soaring in delight at the successful completion of the first phase of her plan for revenge.

The deadly alliance had been formed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Authors Note: Well hello! Long-time no see! I've been using the odd moments here and there between exams to write this chapter, so have decided to post early despite the fact that my exams finish in two weeks time. A quick thank you to the lovely Dissecting Pomegranates for casting her eyes over this chapter and giving me her much valued opinions. Thank you also to all the lovely readers who have reviewed this fic so far, I can only apologise for the delay in updates, but hopefully the time between them will dramatically shorten once I am A-level free!**

An amused chuckle echoed merrily throughout the staffroom as eager green eyes scanned the offending article once more, drinking in its speculations in all their glorious detail.

"Oh, she's going to love this…" came another dark snigger as Imogen Drill lowered the well-handled copy of Witches Monthly that she had borrowed from Lavinia Crotchet to grin widely at her inquisitive looking colleague.

"What dear?" smiled Lavinia knowingly as she returned to her painstaking construction of yet another house of cards, carefully balancing the aged tarot cards upon each other in their usual precarious arrangement.

"I'm sure you know very well what I mean, Lavinia Crotchet!" smirked Imogen, draping her long, tanned legs over the side of the patched armchair as she lazily dangled the magazine by a corner, displaying the glossy photograph of Icy Stevens that adorned the entire page, his dazzling smile only fuelling the intensity of the screaming headline in blood-red capitals

**"ICY'S PERFECT WOMAN, THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER WHO'S CAPTURED THE ATTENTION OF THE NATION'S RESIDENT HEART-THROB!"**

**_"Speculation has been rife ever since the return of musical mogul Icy Steven from his final filming trip of the current series of the Witchy Hour at noted magical institution, Cackles Academy. Stevens, currently the most eligible bachelor in the magical entertainment circles had set tongues wagging with his unexpected disappearance after the show, but has now returned to reclaim his title as King of the Airwaves once more, claiming that it is love that is fuelling him in his quest to drive ever higher in the stakes of success, and that his heart now firmly belongs to "the most captivating witch I have ever had the fortune to meet".…_**

"Sickening, isn't it!" chortled Imogen as she finished reading from the gushing article, clapping her hands in glee as she leant forward to replace the magazine upon the table, "Constance is going to hate this…" she beamed as she settled back in the chair, her arms stretched out comfortably behind her head as Lavinia reciprocated the evil grin that her friend was wearing.

"How… unfortunate…" she bit her lip diplomatically as she snapped her fingers, freezing the toppling pile of cards at a rakish angle as they threatened to collapse once more. She glanced momentarily at the steadily ticking clock that sat dependably upon the mantelpiece before pointing a finger at the battered wireless that sat in the corner. The aged device coughed and spluttered into life, a screech of feedback momentarily deafening the occupants of the room before it settled upon a frequency. An up-beat jingle filled the air, announcing the start of the nations most listened-to radio show.

"And now, brought to you by All-Hallows Media, sponsored by Hags and Horrocks quality potions supplies… iiiiittt's The Icy Stevens Show!"

"Wait for it…" muttered Imogen holding up her hand as the introduction music continued, "5-4-3-2-1…"

Right on cue the tall, disapproving figure clad from head to toe in black materialised from thin air, bringing a distinctly chilly atmosphere with her, seething rage emanating from her slender form as she inclined her head in acknowledgement to her fellow members of staff before stalking off towards the merrily burbling tea-urn.

"Do we have to listen to this meaningless drivel?" she snapped scathingly by means of greeting as she spooned a large amount vibrant purple powder into the vast teapot, her underlying rage betraying her calm demeanour as her willowy hand trembled angrily, spilling the majority of the luminescent powder.

"But I like the Icy Stevens Show, Constance!" protested a wide-eyed and innocent Lavinia, "I always listen to the Witching Top 40 chart!"

"Hmmph…" came the muffled reply as Constance settled uncomfortably onto one of the wooden-backed dining chairs, preparing herself mentally for yet another gruelling half hour of double-entendres and awful puns that would be thrown in her general direction courtesy of the conceited little disk-jockey at the other end of the hideous contraption.

"Good afternoon listeners," came the usual silky smooth voice, "and of course, a special hello to that captivating Miss Perfection herself, the _constant_ presence within my thoughts. Anyway, teatime chat, competitions and music all to come, stay tuned after this jazzy little number from the Spellgirls, currently sitting at number 10 in the charts…"

"Afternoon ladies," came the breezy greeting as Amelia swept into the staffroom, staggering slightly beneath the weight of the assembled exercise books, gratefully seating herself at the table and helping herself to a welcoming cream cake from the awaiting plate. "How are we all this afternoon?" she enquired, noting the sour look upon Constance's face as her deputy sipped meagrely at the steaming contents of her china cup of tea, firmly ignoring the plate of cakes offered to her by the headmistress.

"Oh," Amelia bent down and rummaged within her capacious handbag, placing her winged glasses upon her nose as she read from the headed paper, "I've had a letter through from Icy Productions- Mr Stevens will be arriving with us on Friday to present the prizes from the Witchy Hour comptet-"

She broke off as a tell-tale tinkle of china came from her left, a willow patterned cup tumbling slowly to the floor, dislodged by a particularly violent spasm from Constance's wrist. She met Constance's wide-eyed stare with concern as the furious witch gritted her teeth firmly.

"I'm sorry, headmistress…" muttered the deputy head as she grimly pointed her index and little finger at the smashed smithereens, causing the shattered cup to instantly reform and zoom back onto the awaiting saucer.

"Is there a problem, Constance?" enquired Amelia gently as she returned the letter to her hand bag.

"Not in the least, headmistress," sniffed the tall woman abruptly, "I just have no wish to see that odious little man again!"

"Oh, I don't know Constance," came a teasing voice. Imogen straightened up in her chair, proffering the magazine towards the seething woman, "Have a look at page 4…." She deftly tossed the magazine towards the disbelieving deputy, "I rather think that hundreds of young girls' hearts across the country have been broken by his latest interview with Witches Monthly…."

Constance opened the magazine to the suggested article. Her blazing hazel eyes swept interrogatingly across the glossy paper, narrowing to feline slits of rage as she processed each word of the simpering article. Her hands supporting the magazine closed into tight fists, a faint ripping noise filtering into the air as she tore into the paper.

"How dare he…." She closed her eyes, breathing heavily, little sparks of incensed magic breaking free from the tips of her slender fingers, angry red flames of irate fury licking into the paper, charring it into a blackened mess.

"I think he rather liked "Hotstuff- haired Hardbroom…" mused Lavinia thoughtfully, pulling at a stray thread of mousy hair that was escaping from her loose bun, "Quite catchy really…." She trailed off in fear at the murderous expression that was dawning upon the other woman's face.

"So, tell me Constance," grinned Imogen, a wicked smirk curling upon her lips at the other woman's obvious discomfort, "How exactly did you relieve Icy of his amphibious form? Magic or the good old fairytale method?"

"I have already informed you, Miss Drill," snarled Constance viciously as she slammed the smoking remnants of the scorched magazine down upon the table, "That I have no wish to discuss Mr Stevens or anything to do with the wretched man any further…"

She turned briskly upon her heel and stormed towards the door, gritting her teeth as the familiar dulcet tones rang out over the fading lyrics of the irritating Spellgirls melody.

"Welcome back listeners, and now, for all the lovers out there, I would like dedicate this song to the most perfect witch that I have ever met, the bewitching, captivating possessor of my heart…"

A loud scream of infuriation from by the doorway resulted in the immediate detonation of the aged radio in a cloud of multi-coloured smoke, followed by the immediate disappearance of the caster of the spell.

"Well, really…" muttered Lavinia, unperturbed as she returned her attentions to her tarot card sculpture.

"Why, Imogen, why?" sighed Amelia impatiently as she cast a despairing look at the sniggering PE teacher, "You know how badly she reacts whenever his name is mentioned…"

Imogen smiled broadly as she leant back comfortably into her favourite armchair. "Oh, come on..." she said, her green eyes twinkling with suppressed mirth, "This is the first time in all the years that I've been at Cackles that I've had any hold whatsoever over what she says or does to me- I can finally retaliate if she remarks on my non-witch status, fight my corner if she mentions Serge... and generally get my own back for a change!"

"Well," said Amelia, reluctantly pushing away the half-eaten cream slice as she resolved to find her deputy, "For my sake, if not my sanity, could you please relent until Friday at least?"

She pushed her chair back with a loud scrape, her frown wrinkled slightly in thought as she surveyed the abandoned remains of the article, "All the same…" she mused, "With the level of detail in that article, one wonders if there is an informant within the school?" she arched an inquisitive eyebrow over the top of her teacup as she drained the dregs from the vessel.

A loud spluttering noise from her left accompanied the statement as Lavinia choked suddenly upon a large mouthful of tea, her eyes wide and staring in surprise.

"It wasn't me..." she muttered quietly, distractedly mopping the sodden front of her robes, her attempt at a cool demeanour withering rapidly beneath the looks of her colleagues.

"Well..." she cleared her throat nervously, averting her eyes and smiling faintly, "I did happen to have dinner with Millicent Hawthorn last week..."

"THE Millicent Hawthorn?" questioned Amelia mildly amused by the apparent indiscretion shown by her employee, "Witch Monthly journalist extraordinaire! Oh Lavinia, really…"

"The very same..." blushed Lavinia, "And I may happen to have mentioned his visit, and, dare I say it, his obvious attraction towards a certain tall, powerful witch with a notoriously frosty persona..."

"Oh dear…" chuckled Amelia as Imogen dissolved into fresh peals of laughter, wincing slightly as she straightened up, brushing cake crumbs from the front of her charcoal grey cardigan.

"Well, I suppose the damage has been done!" she added philosophically as she walked to the door, "If you'll excuse me ladies, I must go and find Constance…"

**Xxx**

Constance Hardbroom strode briskly along the corridors, her steaming rage only fuelling the rate of her usual rapid tempo as she swept through the castle, the footfall of her heeled leather boots echoing loudly off the stone walls as she set about administering a rapid fire of punishments and detentions, her hawk-like eyes raking the surroundings for potentially mis-behaving students. To say she was seething would be a gross understatement as her venomous tones admonished, scrutinised and destroyed simultaneously, leaving nothing but a trail of steaming wreckage in her wake.

"Why on earth," she spat furiously beneath her breath as she rounded the corner, her keychain jangling manically at her waist as she marched forward, a jingling peal of warning to all those who may find themselves in her uncompromising path, "Is it impossible for one's privacy to be respected? Why should every little piece of personal information wormed out of dubious informants be garnished with a choice amount of salacious gossip before being smeared relentlessly across the faces of the national tabloids! I, Constance Hardbroom, a victim of the gutter-press!"

She paused mid-rant upon hearing the contents of the conversation of the nearest group of gossiping young witches to bellow her most notorious form of admonishment.

"MILDRED HUBBLE!"

A tall, gangly girl with long, untidy pigtails nearly fell off her window-sill perch in shock, although she should have been well accustomed to the less than favourable methods of greeting her form-tutor usually adopted.

"M-miss Hardbroom?" she questioned, fiddling nervously with the fraying ends of her canary-yellow sash that was tied loosely around her slender waist and surveying her hob-nailed boots glumly as she prepared for the latest stinging verbal attack.

"Much as you and your collective group of friends may enjoy fanning the flames of intrigue, Mildred Hubble," began the enraged woman in a particularly deadly tone of hushed rage, "The so-called subjects of the speculation do not appreciate their private lives being circulated in public!"

"But Miss Hardbroom," Jadu Wali interrupted bravely, "We were only discussing Icy Stevens return to hand out the prizes for the Witchy Hour! Nothing else!"

"And how on earth did you girls acquire this classified information?" began Miss Hardbroom silkily as she folded her arms across her bony chest.

"Miss Cackle told us in Spells this morning, Miss!" replied Enid defensively, a smug smile spreading slowly across her face at the knowledge that, unusually, she could not be punished for breaking any of the multitude of rules that the academy possessed.

"Oh, and I suppose you think, Enid Nightshade, that I would be sufficiently gullible to believe such a fabricated piece of reasoning?" She paused to stalk menacingly around the collective group of girls, "I don't know what you take me for, but let me assure you, when I smell a rat, it is usually for the right reason…"

She straightened up, a savage glint of pleasure dancing within her eyes. "Detention, all of you for the rest of the week!" she barked, "And-"

"Excuse me, Miss Hardbroom," interrupted the calm tones of Amelia Cackle, "If I could have a word in my office?"

"Yes, but!-" came the indignant splutter of rage.

"At once Miss Hardbroom, if you please…" the headmistress reiterated firmly, placing a guiding hand upon Constance's arm and gesturing towards her awaiting room.

**xxx**

"Now then, Constance" reassured Amelia as she motioned for her deputy to be seated, "I know that you have been more affected by the presence of Mr Stevens than you care to let on, and-"

"I had not been affected in any way at all, Headmistress!" snorted her colleague derisively, "If anything, it's the immature reactions of my fellow members of staff that I find more difficult to tolerate!"

"Yes, well, I'm not asking you to ignore them completely Constance," her face softened slightly at the indignant tut of annoyance from her deputy, "I know that they can be trying—"

"And completely unprofessional!" snarled Constance, "Headmistress, is it too much to ask for my private life not to be dragged through the mud along with the reputation of the school? This type of media war-fare is exactly what they—, what **he** wants, to turn us into tabloid-fodder! Degrading and debasing us until we have nothing left to our name except our tattered reputation!" she slammed the palm of her slender hand into the arm of her chair to accentuate her point, little wisps of ebony hair escaping from her usually immaculate bun.

"Really Constance!" Amelia interjected, an amused smile playing around her lips at the tall woman's agitation, "Don't you think that you are taking this far too personally?"

The other witch scowled, folding her willowy arms tightly across her bony chest, wearing a distinctly unamused expression, "No," she growled ominously, "No, I do not Headmistress..."

"Well," began Amelia, adopting a slightly softer tone of voice as she arose from behind the desk and knelt next to the armchair which contained the rigid figure of the potions mistress, placing a kindly hand upon Constance's arm, "Rest assured that I will talk to Imogen and Lavinia, but please, for my sake, could you give me your word that you will at least tolerate them until the presentation on Friday, however irksome they may be, without turning either of them into a toad, however tempting it may be!" she broke off to smile gently, "I am short-staffed enough as it is without having my chanting teacher or my sports mistress developing webbed feet and a strange predilection for eating flies!"

Constance drew in a long breath through her pointed nose, closing her eyes as she exhaled, summoning the fading strength of her enviable self-control, "Yes, Amelia..." she relented, gritting her teeth and pouting faintly at the thought of the verbal irritations that she would have to overcome from her over-zealous colleagues, in addition to the simpering radio coverage from the besotted DJ.

"I promise…"

Amelia leaned closer, "For the wellbeing and harmony of the school?"

"For the wellbeing and harmony of the school," came the grim reply.


	4. Chapter 4

**Authors Note: Hello again! I'm baaack! Exams are now over, so back to the writing at last! *lets off fireworks* **

**Thank you so much to everyone who has left reviews and PM'd me; they really do mean a lot. This chapter is set a few days after chapter 3, Icy is coming to Cackles to present the prizes from the Witchy Hour contest….**

The long-anticipated day of Icy Steven's return to Cackles finally dawned, bringing with it a clear, sunny day. A gleaming Rolls Royce was moving effortlessly along the almost empty country road, laden with glossy new textbooks, an industrial crate of Hags and Horrocks merchandise and the most important man in magical showbiz.

"Stop here John." Agatha Cackle's crisp command instantly caused the grey-suited chauffer to stamp upon the brake pedal, bringing the mighty car to an immediate halt at the side of the winding country road.

"Now," she turned to an expectant Icy Stevens, "You know what to do?" she barked.

The media tycoon nodded distractedly; smiling sweetly to himself as he stared out of the window at the majestic castle on the horizon, the mere sight of Cackles Academy causing yet another image of a love-struck Constance Hardbroom embracing him passionately to swim in front of his bewildered eyes.

"Mr Stevens! I'm talking to you!" came the impatient snarl from his left, accompanied by a sharp prod to his side, "Do you remember what to do?"

He blinked sluggishly a couple of times before patting the pocket of his tailor-made jacket and feeling the small glass vial that was tucked protectively inside, remembering Agatha's rather unorthodox arrival at his office that morning- flying at breakneck speed into the sedate surroundings of the leather and chrome environment boardroom of Icy Productions on a distinctly battered broomstick at nine o'clock in the morning had done little to prevent the imminent heart attacks of half of his overstressed top executives, each convinced that they were experiencing some form of vivid, caffeine-induced hallucination as they fanned desperately at their faces with crumpled copies of the morning's Financial Times before collapsing headfirst into a dead faint upon the glass-topped desk.

"Yes," he began, reciting the list of actions in an autonomous monotone, each step of the plan reeling smoothly off from his memory.

"Good, very good," Agatha beamed, patting her obedient slave gently on the arm, "All being well, I will see you later, Mr Stevens…"

She climbed gracefully out of the car, placing her pointed hat firmly onto her flyaway grey hair and straightening her ebony robes carefully before mounting her patiently hovering broomstick and soaring off into the skies, soon disappearing amidst the dense growth of the tall trees of the forest as she sought a quiet glade to wait in whilst remaining undetected by the inhabitants of the castle.

Xxx

"He's coming, he's coming!"

A high-decibel shriek came from an eager first year as she leaned at a dangerous angle out of the lofty turret window of the chanting classroom, excitement replacing any fragment of common sense that she possessed as it was left to her friend to grab her around the waist before she plummeted to her death in her frenzied delirium at the possibility of coming face to face yet again with the legendary celebrity.

The single shout was enough to cause a mass evacuation of all the classrooms throughout the entire castle, afternoon lessons abandoned in a mass exodus, doors crashing open as a flood of students wearing a rainbow of coloured sashes swept past in a squealing eruption of noise, fighting in a desperate attempt to be the first to reach the courtyard. The sudden development of mass chaos was enough to leave Lavinia Crotchet to be trampled beneath an eager hoard before the appearance of a seething Constance Hardbroom at the top of the stairs, her sonorous tones easily outstripping the combined vocal intensity of eighty squealing schoolgirls in an incensed snarl of unbridled rage.

"WILL YOU BE QUIET!"

Red sparks of anger shot from her bared casting fingers causing the rampaging students to freeze in their tracks as the shoelaces of their hob-nailed boots unwound and rooted firmly into the floorboards.

"Destructive. Subversive. Madness…" she growled, each syllable spat with venom from between her gritted teeth, hazel eyes ablaze with fury, "Hardly fitting behaviour for young witches, I think girls?" Her voice had fallen to a deathly hush, yet it radiated unchecked rage that left the assembled witches quaking in fear.

"The arrival of an arrogant, over-rated, pompous celebrity does not require this form of manic hooliganism!" she snarled, placing her hands firmly upon her slender hips, "I don't know what—"

"Miss Hardbroom!" a wheezing Amelia Cackle had finally pushed her way through the stricken crowd, "What on earth has happened?"

Before her enraged deputy could open her mouth, Amelia had swept past, calling back over her shoulder as she lifted the enchantment, "Come on girls, we don't want to appear discourteous to Mr Stevens now, do we? Especially-" she broke off to shoot an accusing look at Constance, "As Icy Productions are supplying the school with such a vast quantity of resources…"

Miss Hardbroom rolled her eyes in despair, folding her arms petulantly across her chest and vanished abruptly as the screaming mass of children began to race for the open door once more.

"Perhaps so, Miss Cackle…" she muttered from her post of invisibility, staring out of the window at the adoring masses that were now surrounding the jet-black Rolls Royce, "But there are some things that I will not tolerate, regardless of how much money a certain person is prepared to shower the school in…"

"Money cannot buy one manners…" she sniffed before disappearing to the staffroom in defeat.

Xxx

The day had passed mostly without incident, thought Amelia as she continued carefully setting the table in the staffroom, straightening the errant edges of the tablecloth as she reflected upon the success of the presentation ceremony that had taken place in the Great Hall earlier in the afternoon. Prizes had been presented without hindrance, even Mildred had managed not to disgrace herself in front of the assembled magical media, delivering a well-written, albeit slightly stammered speech of acceptance without any major incident. Perhaps even Constance would manage to concede that despite her many shortfalls, there was no doubt that the girl was improving dramatically in her personal presentation.

She paused to smile at her newly treasured possession that now sat proudly on top of the stone mantelpiece- a black and white photograph presented to her by one of the journalists present, depicting a grimacing Phyllis Pentangle being forced to shake her hand in acceptance of the draw in the series, an image that had left her with a feeling of intense satisfaction, a feeling evidently not shared by the head of Pentangles who had grudgingly accepted the merits of a Cackle's education in front of a room of eager reporters before promptly returning to her own establishment. A personal victory was always immensely gratifying given the intense rivalry between the two schools.

As the clock chimed six, a tentative knock at the door announced the arrival of Icy Stevens accompanied by Mildred Hubble and Enid Nightshade.

"Oh, Miss Cackle," he stepped carefully into the room, gesturing admiringly towards the immaculately decorated table, "What a beautiful display!"

"Thank you, Mr Stevens," smiled Amelia, blushing faintly as she motioned for him to assume his seat at the table, "I trust that you have been well looked after by Mildred and her friends?"

"I have indeed," smiled the DJ, motioning towards the retreating students with a casual wave of his manicured hand, "They took me on a tour of the castle, explained some of its history to me- I had no idea what a fascinating past these buildings had…" he continued in the same vein for several minutes whilst Imogen and Lavinia arrived and arranged themselves at the table.

"But, where is Miss Hardbroom?" he broke off, looking concernedly at the unoccupied seat that lay opposite to him.

"Oh, I'm sure that she must have just been delayed…" Amelia tailed off, glancing at the clock and frowning slightly. Constance had never been late for a meeting of any kind in her entire time at the school, however, her fears were abated when the tall deputy headmistress materialised with her arms firmly folded and her brow knitted into an unwelcoming grimace as she appeared directly in the last remaining seat at the table.

"It's a pleasure to see you again, Miss Hardbroom," smiled Icy dreamily as he came eye to eye with the witch of his dreams once more, "Can I offer you a glass of wine?"

Constance inclined her head irritably as she accepted a brimming crystal goblet, muttering her thanks quietly beneath her breath.

"Hopefully Miss Pentangle won't rob you of your wine this time, Constance?" Icy attempted a jocular tone of voice that withered and died in its tracks at the disbelieving eyebrow that was raised at an impossible angle by the unimpressed witch.

"We've so been looking forward to your return, Mr Stevens," interjected Amelia before Constance could open her mouth, "Haven't we, ladies?"

Lavinia nodded intently before Miss Drill cut in.

"Oh, yes, Miss Hardbroom's been talking of nobody else all week, haven't you Constance?" grinned Imogen, her green eyes twinkling with barely supressed mirth as the usually composed witch choked upon a particularly large gulp of wine she had just taken in a bid to cushion herself from the constant love-struck staring that she was receiving from Icy Stevens. She could feel her flesh crawling, little goosebumps standing up distrustfully on the back of her arm as his chocolate eyes stared unflinchingly back at her from across the other side of the table, lacking some of their previous warmth, they were slightly distant and his pupils decidedly unfocused. A nagging sense of unease was tugging gently at her suspicious nature, either the man was more drunkenly foolhardy than even she had dared to suspect, or there were other forces at play, it went well and truly against common etiquette to stare insistently at a witch for such a long, unbroken period of time without offering a profound explanation for ones behaviour.

"Well, I can certainly say that the prospect of meeting Mr Stevens again has never been far away from my mind this week, Miss Drill…" she growled ominously, her feline eyes rapidly narrowing to slits as a quiet shattering noise informed her that she had been gripping her wine glass so hard that the fragile stem had snapped beneath her infuriated hold. Successfully resisting the highly tempting urge to kick her fellow member of staff firmly in the shins, she instead merely settled for casting a quiet spell underneath the table. Moments later, a disgruntled squeak from her left told her that Imogen's lips had been temporarily been glued together.

"Better…" she muttered sweetly under her breath as she allowed a victorious smile to dawn upon her lips, earning her an exasperated frown from Imogen as she folded her arms across her chest with a satisfied smirk, "Much better indeed…"

She didn't usually approve of the use of such trivial spells, but it was at particularly trying times such as this that she was thankful for the fact that she had such enchantments to come to her aid. Additional irritation courtesy of Imogen could now be practically avoided for the majority of the evening.

Xxx

It was an exasperated Constance Hardbroom that materialised into her chamber later that evening, an evening in Icy Steven's company had nearly been too much to bear- if he wasn't staring at her with that unsettling gaze, he was simpering over her teaching ability or her magical achievements with a brand of sincerity as contrived as his appearance in his magazine posters.

She carefully changed into her purple satin pyjamas, unintentionally sighing with relief as she sat down at her dressing table and loosened the excruciatingly tight bun, relieving the aching tension that it created upon her scalp as her long, thick locks of hair escaped into a glossy mane that hung far down her bony back. Unaccustomed to alcohol, she swayed slightly as she made to stand up, her feet stumbling treacherously beneath her as she reached for the small crystal vial that held a dosage of her beloved Wide Awake Potion. She was on dorm duty, and was cursing her weakness at lowering herself to drinking on duty, but that infuriating man could only be dealt with rationally under the helping influence of alcohol.

Constance removed the cork and raised the potion to eye level, wrinkling her nostrils in distaste at the familiar smell, a surge of longing rising within her at the slightest taste of the blissful substance in the air, her unintentional lifeline, she knew that her existence was now dependant on this miracle potion, the unpleasant, sour taste etched firmly into her taste bud had her in a death grip all of its own, helplessly addicted to its cleansing properties, grimly prepared to face even the worst of its many listed side-effects in order to dodge the possibilities of the confrontation of her many demons in the horrific settings of her nightmares.

Was it worth it? Would she have been better off without it? So many questions that raced through her mind every time she swallowed the ghastly-tasting concoction, but the overriding fear that had led to her original dependency was enough to steer her into raising the vial to her lips every time her resolve weakened- anything was better than having to live through her past once more. Pinching her nose, she threw the contents of the vessel into her mouth and swallowed quickly before she retched at the vile taste.

She knew as soon as the acrid tasting liquid assaulted her taste buds that something was terribly wrong, a sickly-sweet overtone was hiding at the back of her palate, ice flooding through her veins in fear as her breathing quickened in momentary panic, her heart dropping like a plummeting stone within her chest as she desperately tried to analyse the lingering taste of the intruding ingredient, her logical mind sifting fruitlessly through years of acquired knowledge in a bid to try and form a plan of action, but to no avail.

She clutched tightly onto the brass bedstead, her weakened muscles trembling in protest as a cold, dewy sweat of fear rose upon the back of her hand, little beads of frozen water trickling slowly down her shaking arm. She fruitlessly tried to pull herself to her trembling feet, but the floor dipped and swayed in front of her as if a tidal wave had passed through the unforgiving grey flagstones, the bitter bile of nausea rose in the back of her constricted throat, causing her to brace herself involuntarily against the bed. Her aching head was throbbing violently beneath the combination of racing adrenaline that was prickling through her veins coupled with the rushing flow of her blood echoing with a resonant thud within her ears as she lay shivering on top of the purple satin sheets, perspiration trickling lightly down her shining brow, collecting in her matted, tangled ebony hair. Fatigue was creeping slowly over her prone body, washing over her in comforting waves of numbing calm, soothing her to sleep, to surrender her desperate hold on consciousness, willing her to concede and plunge into the dark depths of oblivion. With a ragged gasp of air leaving her lungs, Constance slumped limply back into the soft pillows as she lost her battle with the unknown additive, unconscious to everything around her, wrapped in amidst the heaviest layers of slumber, trapped in the comatose world of sleep that encased her leaden limbs and sedated mind.

Xxx

Far below, a cloaked figure crept quietly through the still corridors, carrying a faintly flickering lantern. He stood calmly at Walkers Gate, waiting for the tower clock to strike midnight, placing the lantern upon the ground as the single bell began to toll midnight.

"Ready…" he whispered, placing a hand upon the lock.

"Kista Pandorum, Partis Testorum!" came the whispered reply from the other side of the gate, the completion of the enchantment causing the lock to disintegrate, falling to the floor in the flurry of golden sparks as Icy Stevens finally opened the gate.

"Cackles bids you welcome…" he smiled, extending a hand to Agatha Cackle.

"I thank you…" she whispered, accepting the hand of welcome before taking a tentative step forwards into the courtyard, a smile lighting up her wrinkled face at the lack of intrusion spells that came her way.

"No intrusion from the Witches Oath today! Personal invitation from an inhabitant of the castle appears to override their ruling! " she cackled to herself as she strode past Icy, "I take it you managed to administer the potion?"

"Yes, Agatha…" whispered Icy, "I put it in the potion you described when I was being shown around the school by the girls, w-ill it, will it have worked by now?"

Agatha consulted the clock before turning back to her loyal conspirator, "Oh, I should think so," she grinned nastily, "I'm sure the affections of Constance Hardbroom will be yours and nobody else's from now on…"

He gulped nervously, staring up at the highest tower in the West Wing of the castle, "Mine?…" he murmured in amazement.

"For as long as you both shall live…" quoted Agatha, rolling her eyes into the darkness, "Why don't you go to her, Icy?" she pushed, "Only I can finish what I need to do now…"

He nodded mutely before coming to his senses and walking slowly away, slightly disorientated by the impact of the realisation that his actions had led to the realisation of his wildest dreams.

xxx

She was the vision of perfection, not one blemish spoiling her porcelain skin as the unearthly shimmer of the full moon bathed her milky skin in a celestial glow, her closed almond eyes framed by thick, naturally curling lashes, her hair tumbling in a river of burnished mahogany was spread across the purple satin pillow, dark glossy locks that contrasted strikingly with the faintly translucent complexion, colourless save for a faint rose flush that crept slowly across her well-defined cheekbones.

"Oh Constance…" he reached forward with a trembling hand, unsure if what he saw was merely a projection of his pleading mind, or a glorious reality, a gasping man on his knees in front of an imaginary oasis in the desert, hope never dying as he drank in every detail of her glorious beauty.

"My Constance…" a faint note of possessive pride crept into his low tones as his hand brushed softly against her immobile features, cupping her face gently and caressing her cheek with the edge of his trembling thumb.

"So beautiful…" he patiently removed the gossamer strands of hair that had crept onto her face once freed from their usual strict bun, surveying her critically, unable to find a single flaw in the vision that lay sleeping peacefully below his attentive gaze, awed at the closeness of his proximity to the sleeping witch, he was finally able to trace the outline of that beautiful jawline with the tip of his index digit without angry rebuttal, allowed to comb his shaking fingers through her beautiful ebony locks, she was the work of art and he the eager critic, the tireless surveyor of her infinite exquisiteness.

"Be mine, Constance…" he breathed, leaning forwards slowly as he inhaled, savouring her own unique musky vanilla scent that intermingled with her long tresses.

"Don't you reject me again…" he warned quietly to the unconscious woman as he cradled her head protectively in his arms.

"My perfect inspiration…"

His hungry lips finally found hers, brushing against them tenderly, the long sought after kiss that was the final fulfilment of all his dark desires that had eaten away at his soul from the moment he had first caught her eye at that fated conference so many months ago, infected with the deadly disease of infatuation, love that had lead him blindly into carrying out the bidding of one of the academy's most dangerous enemies.

Moments later, he choked in horror, jolting away from Constance as the rose-tinted vision of perfection faded abruptly in front of his deceived eyes to reveal a dishevelled, sickly-looking woman, sweat trailing off her frozen skin, shivering violently in a feverish slumber, her skin a deathly white, tinged with an unexpected hue of grey. He blinked in surprise, unable to process the latest development before a bitter, unexpectedly acrid taste surged into his mouth, his taste buds recoiling in disgust as he fell to his knees as the drug began its work, his hands wrapped tightly around his own throat in shock, harshly jolted out of the reverie that he had inhabited for the past three weeks, a blindly obedient servant prepared to sacrifice himself as a lamb to the slaughter to ensure the successful implementation of his mistress's plans, the unwitting pawn in the battle for Cackles Academy, he had never been destined to reunite with his beloved Constance. Bright lights were now spreading across his oxygen-deprived vision, as the world dissolved into nothingness, his senses beginning to close off one by one, falling deep into the mire of unconsciousness, drowning beneath the inky waters of oblivion.

Cheated, duped and left to his fate by his fellow adversary.

xxx

Elsewhere in the castle, Agatha Cackle strode triumphantly along the corridor towards the Headmistress's chamber, blue eyes sparkling behind her thick glasses with a rare glimmer of happiness, her black cape billowing out behind her like a dense cloud, her heeled boots rapping out a determined rhythm upon the ancient wooden floorboards as she finally allowed her parched, cracked lips to curl into a victorious smirk. Icy Stevens, the deluded fool! The man who had blindly accepted her promises of assuring Constance's reciprocation, tricked into administering a deadly sedative made from the crushed berries of bittersweet nightshade, the effects of the toxin only accelerated by the caffeine content of the Wide Awake Potion, leaving the way clear for her to reclaim her rightful post within the school unopposed by the powerful sorceress. She had spent two years constantly plotting, scheming obsessively to reach this point, and now she had what she wanted in her sights…

Revenge would be sweet.


End file.
